Clifford Malcolm Willett

Review of Café-Bar Marzano

When I attended my London conservatoire to study p...

When I attended my London conservatoire to study piano, people tended to rather raise their eyebrows when I said I had moved from Norfolk.

(Alhough I'm actually French-Scottish by ancestry. My ancestors appear to have accidentally quietly instigated the invasion of England in 1066. I do apologise. It was a waste of time. You cannot grow decent wine here and it rains during Wimbledon, where I favour the womyn's game. So we largely left for the New World, as shall I.)

Norfolk is strictly for shooting, they said. And of course, Sandringham is nice during the show.

"I have no need to shoot anyone," I would riposte. "And Sandringham seem to largely consist of some old furniture and some giant vegetables. Get with the times."

I had fallen out with the current Royal family anyway, merely by playing Chopin's Revolutionary Etude appallingly at a competition then asking Ruth, Lady Fermoy where the sausage rolls were at a buffet at the actual Fermoy Centre in Bishop's Lynn. (The town has changed name recently, I am told? What care I?)

Lady Fermoy appeared to think I had mistaken her for a waitress. I had merely mistaken her for someone with class. The actual waitresses were lovely. (Her opinion on Chopin was really of no interest. I do not believe she played that particular piece. It was composed to baffle Liszt, and it certainly baffled me, I assure you. Not to mention you need long hair to play it well. I am scarcely a hippy. I am more punk in attitude.)

Anyhow, Marzano is a rather lovely province in Lombardy. Cafe Bar Marzano appeals to people who sport patriarchal beards (beards are for Vikings, bikers, and Victorians) and who buy one coffee then spend all day braying about comics I grew out of in adolescence, videogames I played decades ago, and music that was old hat even in my youth.

I used to visit with an acquaintance who worked remotely there. We were amused that an actual rock star with local connections (who quietly supported my last charity) often sat there surreptitiously reading his newspaper, while many of the various baristas of any gender appeared to act as though they believed they were rock stars. As if! Cryptocurrency, not coffee, is the new rock-n-roll, dude.

(Incidentally, Andy Warhol would have adored Instagram, and those tedious types who repeatedly post boring filtered self-portraits. Old hat, or what? Be creative for once, I always say. And do get over your face. At least spend your 15 minutes of fame being vaguely amusing.)

If you want decent Fair Trade coffee, chocolate, or soft drinks, Marzanos suffices. The wine comes from bottles with screw caps (like me, wine breathes through a cork) and the tea is as insipid as Ed Sheeran. You may also buy decent fresh baguettes and some chocolate cake. (And some other stuff I have no interest in, but you may perhaps favour. Sandwiches, or salads. Little vegan flapjacks. Whatever.)

The free WiFi achieves reasonable speeds, there are comfortable couches, and you can sit outside in the incessant English rain where it is quieter.

However, they have no app to place your order upon, do not have table service, and will be rude to you should you return your cup and plates to the counter as all civilised people of any class do.

After all, I can drink coffee and hang out with diverse people (who don't all look exactly like me) at home. Or I can support more recent immigrants by buying a decent mug of tea from an Albanian on Norwich Market then seeing what's new in the way of Noodles from Hong Kong.

Alan Partridge would love Marzanos and consider it cosmopolitan and sophisticated. I consider it hilarious, but I despise discourtesy in people whose bills are paid by our custom.

The Americans, Scottish, and French understand customer service. Norwich does not. Like Metro Bank who tell me Norwich is 12 years behind London, I am moving North. (I simply cannot keep popping over to Cambridge from Norwich by train every time I need to change notes into pound coins in their retro jukebox. I may as well just bank in London again.)

Au revoir.